Date: Thu, 2 May 2002 19:12:50 +0100 (BST)
From: nder pants
Subject: The Mastery of Table-Turning (Chapter Fifteen) [Gay - Authoritarian]
THE MASTERY OF TABLE-TURNING
[THE STORY SO FAR - Alan Watson, stripped of his own
free will and subjected to the use and abuse of a
group of his sixth-form pupils who have a hold over
him, is forced to live naked in his own home and only
permitted to wear demeaning and revealing garb
outdoors at weekends without special permission and
being subjected to further humiliating forfeits.
Returning from a run in minuscule paper thin shorts,
he finds a colleague waiting for him. Having been
suspicious of the games master's motives, the
unexpected show of friendliness surprises Alan, but
nothing has prepared him for the revelation that the
sporting-mad head of games would like nothing better
than to suck his cock on a regular basis.]
CHAPTER FIFTEEN - Meat and Two Veg.
Over the remaining pack of six beers, Dave Whalley,
showing not the slightest shred of embarrassment about
lounging naked with me in my living room, nor about
his recent masturbatory activities, or even his
professed pursuit of every opportunity to get his lips
round my penis, unwound and revealed what he knew of
the situation in which I now found myself.
I was quite frankly surprised and relieved to learn of
how little he did know actually. He had heard common
school gossip that I had been stripped to my underwear
and thrown into the pool at Richard Mayhew's
eighteenth, but nothing of the blackmailing or
photographs. He had then assumed that my own birthday
had been separately marked by a debagging and the
shaving of my private parts - a tale he appeared to
have been fed piecemeal by Geoff Talbot, the boy with
an appetite for such horseplay as Dave himself had
revealed to me earlier during the aromatherapy
session. I did not disincline him of this belief, and
drew a spot of comfort from the fact that this
appeared to be a sign of proof as to my masters' tacit
promise to be discreet.
As time passed and he appeared to show no signs of
bringing his visit to a conclusion, I began to grow
concerned in case one of my students called round to
check up on me. How would I explain the fact that they
had access to my house at all times? How would Dave
Whalley feel, being found lounging stark naked with a
fellow colleague - and male, to boot - by members of
his admiring First XV? I was in something of a
quandary. If I asked him to dress in case we were
surprised by unexpected visitors, he'd wonder why I
remained naked. If I dressed as well and my tyrants
arrived to find me clothed, I should suffer the
consequences as I had been well and truly warned.
As each moment passed I grew more restive, and he
appeared to grow more relaxed.
"I can see I'm going to have to make a regular
appointment to keep you loosened up, Alan. A strict
regime - that's what you need," Dave said at length.
"You're far too uptight and anally retentive. We're
going to have to work on that together." He leant
across and stroked my belly. I jumped at his touch. He
chortled at my discomfiture. "First of all we're going
to have to get you content with your body. Your
hang-ups are showing. Let it all hang out. From now
on, be nude as much as possible round the place. It'll
relax you, believe me. You'll gradually become far
less inhibited."
I could have laughed. It was almost like having a
second opinion. The irony was that the same diagnosis
had been prescribed for very different symptoms.
Eventually, he did pull himself together sufficiently
to languorously dress. Taking hold of my penis, he
leant forward and kissed it.
"'Bye 'bye, Big Boy," he said to it, teasing the tip
of it with his thumb. "We must do this again quite
soon, and he gave me a leering wink as he rose none
too steadily to his feet.
I helped him with his massage table and other
equipment to the front door, and donning my dressing
gown, nervously accompanied him to his car with it
all, thankful that it was dark by now. He teasingly
groped me through his open window before he drove
away, and I leapt like a startled gazelle. He had
chuckled and made his farewell. Scuttling back
indoors, I removed the robe and returned to my living
room.
After a late supper - the only item in an otherwise
uneventful night after Dave Whalley's departure - I
went to bed and lay there re-running the events of the
day through my head. There was one thing for certain,
I told myself. No way was I going to present myself at
the Mayhews for lunch on the morrow wearing nothing
but a jock-strap under the opalescent white tracksuit
with tearaway bottoms.
Once in bed, I grew hotly aroused as I relived my
sensuous massage. The vivid memory of the games master
of all people, naked and tumescent, feeding upon my
own rampant organ was extraordinary powerful. Struck
suddenly with a pang of guilt that I was writhing in
my sheets to this recollection, and not to the memory
of Richard's less accomplished mouth, and shamefully
berating myself for my disloyalty to him, I found
myself then comparing and contrasting their methods
and my differing reactions to them both. With Richard
there was so much warmth and affection and yearning.
With Dave Whalley it was sheer, basic animal lust
which was being gratified. Richard had declared his
love for me. I had not reciprocated and I felt
ashamed, unfulfilled. I knew what he was feeling. I,
too, had a deep aching void when I thought of him. I
just lacked the courage to face what this was - to
give it a name - to declare myself as equally
besotted with him as he was apparently with me.
Desperately, I tried to think of Rosemary. More
heterosexual thoughts were healthier. Unnervingly, I
realised with what difficulty I had to bring her face
clearly to memory. Richard's was there in every
detail. So was his body. I had seen so much more of
him than I ever had of her. I lusted after him. I had
never lusted after her, I had to confess to myself. I
also had to acknowledge that I did not lust after Dave
Whalley. I knew I would let him suck me off again, and
that I would enjoy it - that it would satiate my
urges. It would never be the celebration that such an
encounter with Richard - were it possible - would
be.
Suddenly my bedroom light was turned on and my covers
snatched back. I leapt.
"Ta - da!" Tim Robey fanfared triumphantly. "Big Boy's
got a boner!"
So saying, he took hold of it and began to manipulate
it. My hands flew to restrain him as I glanced round
at all my masters looking down upon my naked form.
Tim froze.
"Take your hands away," he said icily.
"Please, Sir . . ." I began.
"By your sides," he added peremptorily.
Utterly cowed by his whole demeanour, I loosened my
grip on his wrists, and dropped my arms to my naked
sides. I lay, rigid, rudely exposed under their
withering gaze.
He began again, intent upon masturbating me in front
of them all.
I lay there, their plaything, their toy, used merely
for their entertainment and amusement. I could feel
their sense of power and triumph over me as I was
brought off before them all, stripped of every
semblance of manly dignity, reduced to a grovelling
obeisance, firing up shining ropes of shaming semen
which fell back across my prone and shorn form, as my
body shuddered with the animal outpourings which
demeaned me all the more in their eyes. And a groan
escaped from my throat as I screwed up my eyes, unable
to acknowledge any expression upon my students' faces
of how low I had sunk in my own estimation, let alone
theirs.
* * *
Before they had left, I had been required to anoint
myself from head to toe in my own spendings, forced to
smear it through my chest hair, over my thighs, and
refused permission to bathe until the morning. I had
also been given my instructions for the following day.
In spite of my pleadings to the contrary, I was to
present myself for lunch at the Mayhews' and, because
I had begged not to be made to go, as a forfeit, I had
been ordered to cut my hedge before I went, wearing
only the onion-skin shorts . Then I had to change,
putting on one of the small jock-straps, and wear my
white tracksuit only. I had also to find some time
alone in order for Richard to become adept at removing
the tracksuit tearaway pants at a stroke - a new-found
skill in which he would be required to demonstrate his
proficiency sometime in the near future.
Bathed, shaved and breakfasted, and with a hedge
neatly clipped and much admired by worshippers on
their way to church, whose comments added to my
humiliation enormously as I had stood before them all
but nude save for the abbreviated shorts, I washed off
all traces of my exertions in the shower before
talc'ing my shaven and shorn extremities and trying to
bundle them into the confines of a ridiculously small
athletic support. As I stood surveying myself in the
tracksuit, my heartbeat missed as I turned, glancing
down at my back view, and noted with alarm the straps
which framed each buttock clearly visible through the
thin manmade fibre of the tearaway bottoms. Facing
front, I moaned as I realised my nipples also were all
too obvious.
Desperately, I rehearsed excuses that I might offer
for being so casually clad, wincing at the
increasingly pathetic nature of each one as it struck
me. What really alarmed was that the very lightness of
the fabric seemed to emphasise my nakedness
underneath. I felt so disgustingly aware of my body,
as well as of my vulnerability.
Of course, the real scenario was not as bad as any of
the ones I had formulated, and whilst expressions
revealed both shock and amazement at such a change in
my normally conservative and staid appearance, a quick
suggestion that I had thought going for a spot of
exercise with Richard a little later might be a fine
opportunity for a private word with him was welcomed
by his mother and father alike. The fact that it would
also provide us with the opportunity for Richard to
practise his required skills at removing my trousers
with a flourish was an added, if not unlooked for,
bonus.
After three or four glasses of wine, Angela Mayhew
declared herself impressed with the new-look Alan
Watson. I know I reddened when she went on to add that
the outfit made a feature of drawing attention to the
attractiveness of my pert bottom. Donald coarsened
matters still further by adding that it showed off my
"bloody big nadgers" to advantage as well. I glanced
at Richard in some embarrassment, to note that he was
even more scarlet than I.
"You invite the chap round for Sunday lunch, only to
find he's got more meat and two veg in his pants than
you can put on his bloody plate!" Donald had added
with a guffaw and a stout clap on my back.
Of course he meant well, and I had to take it all with
as good a grace as I could muster. `Humiliation is
good for the soul' runs the old saying. If there is
any truth in it, then I was certain to be on a first
class ticket straight through the fast lane of
purgatory.
The lamb was succulent; the baby garden peas and leaf
spinach tender and flavourful, the new-crop Jersey
potatoes - as yet, at an early-in-the-season
prohibitive price in my local greengrocer's - full of
the flavour for which they were justly famed. A
date-packed home-made sticky toffee pudding served
with vanilla ice-cream filled any remaining crevices
and determined a late start to any suggestion of
physical activity such as I had recommended their son
and I might partake of in order to "have a chat".
Instead we chatted as a family. Topics covered were
fairly anodyne - holidays and suchlike. I knew the
Mayhews were fairly exotic in their tastes and so
remarked with some surprise when I learned for the
first time that they owned a much under-used Lakeland
cottage virtually adjacent to Crummock Water in the
less touristy western part of the Lake District.
Angela confessed to a strong penchant for the heat of
the tropical sun, which was almost self-explanatory as
to their infrequent visits to Cumbria. Richard,
however, had prevailed upon his father not to get rid
of it as he had fallen in love with the area when a
child, and had vowed to use it when he grew older.
When pressed, I owned to a lifetime's romance with the
whole area and felt both my heart and my loins jump
when it was idly suggested that he and I might care to
spend half-term up there by ourselves.
I insisted on helping Angela clear the table and
helped her fill the dish-washer, while Donald went out
to mow the lawns on his sit-on mower. Richard,
meanwhile went to change into something more
appropriate for taking light exercise with me.
"It is good of you, Alan. I'm sure Richard will open
up to you," Angela said as she patted my hand as we
both bent over the dishwasher. "You know, he has a
severe case of hero-worship over you. I just know
he'll listen to your every word. He'll be putty in
your hands. If it's love, be gentle with him. Don't
scoff."
I froze.
"Love?" I echoed distantly.
"If he's fallen head over heels for some girl or
other, let him down gently. I know we can rely on you
to always act in his best interests."
I was appalled. This was simple torment. My whole
professional ethos was being put on the line here. I
didn't know how I could cope.
Richard appeared in the kitchen wearing an old rugby
shirt and his grey marl jogging bottoms that displayed
his basket so temptingly. He knew I had looked at him
there and had blushed becomingly.
"Let's go, then," he said rather tightly and opened
the kitchen door.
We jogged silently along the hedgerow of two
newly-sown fields and into a spinney. There were
bluebells. It was idyllic. Birds were singing. A small
stream was chattering over its pebbles. I sat upon a
mossy stump and Richard leant against a tree. We
listened, lost in our own thoughts.
"Your mother's worried about you," I said after a
while.
"In what way?" he asked, turning to look at me for the
first time.
"She's noticed a change in you."
He continued to stare at me, waiting for me to
continue.
"She thinks perhaps you've fallen in love," I said.
"She's right then. I have."
I looked away. I knew he looked away as well.
"She thinks it's some girl you've met . . ." I began,
examining my fingernails.
"Whereas you and I both know it's a guy," he finished.
"Richard, listen to me," I deliberately hardened my
tone. "You don't love me. Oh, maybe you have a
schoolboy crush on me - nothing wrong with that - but
. . ."
He interrupted me and pulled away from the tree trunk
against which he had been leaning.
"I did have a schoolboy crush on you, Alan. I freely
admit that. I even confess how worried I was when I
suspected that it was turning into something more than
just that. I was horrified with myself when I found I
was getting serious erections whenever you walked into
a classroom. I even started to have wet dreams about
you too. I still do. You can't imagine how excited I
was the night of my eighteenth birthday party when I
discovered that you were feeling the same thrill I
was. I shall never forget that look of startled
recognition on your face as we faced each other naked
in that bedroom at the club. I was about to get in the
shower and I turned to look at you. You looked at me,
and we both knew, didn`t we?"
I blinked back the hot tears of my embarrassment.
There was photographic evidence of how thrilled I had
been on that occasion, I hotly recalled. Stripped to
my Y-fronts, I had been hurled into the same pool as
the completely denuded Richard. He had swept me up in
his strong arms as he had rescued me, revealing to the
camera and the world how intensely arousing I had
found the experience, as clearly delineated through
the translucently wet fabric of my stretched underwear
as if I had been as naked as he.
He crouched down before me and grabbed my head. Before
I knew it, he had pressed his lips to mine. His tongue
invaded my mouth as I opened it to protest. He
embraced me in a great bear-hug, before taking one of
my hands and placing it on his throbbing manhood
pressing through the jersey fabric of his jogging
bottoms.
"Is this just a schoolboy crush, Alan?" he whispered
hotly and breathily in my ear.
I jumped as I felt his hand touch me at the fork of my
legs.
"And is that a schoolmaster's crush?"
"What else can it be?" I asked helplessly.
"It's love, Alan," he said urgently.
"No it's not. It's lust!" I argued.
He let go of me. I stood up and moved away a little. I
was conscious of my breathing.
"I'm not even sure I'm gay," I confessed.
"I'm sure," Richard responded quickly as he walked
back towards his tree.
"About you or me?" I enquired uncertainly, turning
back towards him.
"About both of us."
"But I've always been attracted to girls in the past,"
I countered weakly.
"But that was before you met me," Richard said as he
turned to look at me.
Again I looked away. I could not meet his penetrating
gaze.
"This is ridiculous," I said helplessly. "I'm twelve
years older than you, for heaven's sake. I'm your
teacher, your tutor - in charge of your moral
education and welfare. Your parents trust me to care
for you, engage me privately to help in your studies."
"And thrust together like this, we have fallen in
love. What could be more natural?"
"Natural? This is not natural!" I stood up and
gestured in futile despair at my shamingly obvious
erection tenting out the taut fabric of my tearaway
tracksuit bottoms.
Richard walked towards me again, reached forward,
grasped the side of them and tore them off in one.
"Why it's the most natural thing in the world," he
said softly, taking me in his hand as he pressed
another all-consuming kiss on my mouth.
My penis leapt and bucked in his gentle palm, and I
groaned longingly and uncontrollably as my arms
enveloped him and drew him still nearer to me. We
squeezed each other so tightly it was hard to breathe.
As my head cleared, the birdsong grew almost
deafening, over and above the music of the stream
bubbling and bickering along its stony bottom. As my
breath slowed the heavy scent of bluebells filled my
nostrils. I felt the spring breeze riffle through the
hairs on my rudely bared legs. So much for Richard
having to practice debagging me.
"Say it, Alan," he whispered breathily in my ear, one
arm clasping me powerfully to him, the other hand
cradling my pouch-clad genitals firmly but gently.
"Say what?" I tried, prolonging the moment before I
knew I had to face a life-altering commitment.
This was something deep down, suppressed, but now
determined to burst to the surface. I could almost
feel it bubbling up like molten lava in a volcano.
"Say it," he repeated, and I thought he held his
breath.
I could hear his heart beat. I could feel his
heartbeat. It was in tune with mine.
I breathed in.
"I . . . think I . . . love you," I whispered,
trembling uncontrollably, tears pouring hotly down my
face.
I felt him stiffen suddenly and then shudder against
me.
"Richard?" I ventured softly after a moment, convinced
that he was silently sobbing too.
"Thank you, Alan. I know how hard that was for you to
say," he whispered, and pecked me gently on each
cheek.
He held me to him again, our eyes closed, our cheeks
pressed together, the heat of our bodies commingling,
our breathing and heartbeats now having taken up the
tempo of each other. We stood like a breathing statue,
the world racing noisily round us.
"You know how I told you I got a raging erection every
time I saw you?" he said after another moment.
"Yes?" I answered.
"Well, when you told me you loved me just then . . . I
came!"
He pulled away from me, still holding my arms, and we
both looked down to see a large dark wet patch at the
fork of his grey marl jersey jogging bottoms.
* * *